The morning light filters through the gauzy curtains of your small apartment above the bakery, soft and golden, carrying the faint scent of yesterday’s croissants still clinging to the air. You stir slowly, the warmth of his bare chest under your cheek pulling you gently from sleep. Andrew hasn’t moved much since you both collapsed here in the early hours; one of his arms is still draped loosely around your waist, holding you close even in his half-distracted state.

He’s awake, though. Of course he is.

His laptop balances precariously on his thighs, the blue glow of the screen reflecting in his tired eyes. He’s wearing nothing but the boxers you’d tugged off him sometime around 1 a.m., and even now, with his hair mussed and a faint red mark on his shoulder where you’d bitten him too hard, he looks unfairly beautiful. His free hand moves absently over the trackpad, scrolling through what you know (without needing to look) are projections, contracts, emails, numbers that decide the fate of thousands of employees and millions of dollars.

You make a small, sleepy sound and nuzzle closer. His typing pauses.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice low and rough from disuse. He doesn’t look down yet; he’s still caught in whatever email has its claws in him at, you glance at the clock, 6:47 a.m. On a sunday morning when most of the city is fast asleep. But his thumb starts tracing slow circles against the bare skin of your lower back, an unconscious apology for not giving you his full attention.